Ramage & the Rebels (44 page)

No point in trimming sails; the
Nuestra Señora
would carry more than enough way to shoot her up into the wind and alongside the frigate. For a moment he thought the crackling was musket and pistol fire from the
Delft;
then he realized it was the sound of flames inside the schooner. The pitch must have caught—yes, and here was the beginning of the smoke, sharp in the throat.

The only thing (apart from his bad seamanship) that could save the Dutch now would be for the fire down below to get out of hand, so that it reached those half-casks of powder before the
Nuestra Señora
could get alongside … A hundred yards to go, perhaps less. The schooner was seventy feet long, twenty-five yards.

“Stand by at all the halyards!”

He could see men, the extra men, materializing from their hiding places behind masts, behind guns, behind coils of rope. He needed them now; it saved him calling up Rennick's men, as he'd planned. And—yes, he could improve the plan.

“A man to every grapnel,” he bellowed. “Up the ratlines with you and haul ‘em on board, ready to toss into the Dutchman's rigging as we come alongside—I'll give the word!”

There was Rossi, waiting calmly. “Get your lanterns out but keep them down so you don't blind us!”

Rennick was shouting up through the skylight (now a gaping hole) of the captain's cuddy that all was well below. The smoke was swirling up through the hatches; he could hear men coughing and cursing.

“Get your men on deck, then!” he ordered Rennick.

The
Delft
was huge now, fine on the larboard bow. Left on this course, the
Nuestra Señora
would pass across her stern and race out through the harbour entrance. No—don't look at those flashes along the
Delft
's upper decks: the Dutchmen are blazing away with muskets. Wounded Calypsos—that was his great fear: any man wounded had to be left behind: he had given strict orders about that.

Seventy-five yards. Jackson was watching him, the luffs of the sails and the
Delft.
The schooner's hatchways were yellow and red rectangles of light and flames: the draught below was more than he expected, roaring, a blacksmith's bellows. And here was Rennick, breathless.

“Everything going fine, sir!”

“Not burning too quickly?”

“No—it just looks like it from up here!”

“Rossi,” Ramage called. “Start those port fires!”

And there was the stern of the
Delft
on the larboard bow, the flashes of muskets making her seem like a house surrounded by fireflies. This was the moment.

“Hard over, Jackson!” It was not a regular helm order but far more effective. Smoothly the
Delft
herself seemed to move quite slowly from the larboard side, across the schooner's bow—just missing the bowsprit—to place herself on the starboard bow, forty yards or so ahead and now heading the same way.

The schooner's sails began flogging, the masts shaking the ship.

“Make up topping lifts … Let go all halyards! Stand from under! Mind the booms and gaffs!”

Rossi's port fires burst into flame and Ramage saw Jackson, face calm, eyes sparkling in the reflection, looking up and over to the
Delft.
There was no need to give him any more helm orders; the American could lay the schooner alongside the
Delft
using the last of her way.

The Dutch musketry was now nearly deafening; the sound of balls ricocheting off metal fittings and guns varied from a sharp ping to clangs like pealing church bells. Now the
Delft
's taffrail was abreast the foremast and the
Nuestra Señora
was making perhaps two knots. Now abreast the mainmast.

“Throw those grapnels, men—high and true!”

There was a great thud as the schooner's hull caught the
Delft
's side, but everyone was expecting it. Then Ramage realized that all the sails, with their great booms and gaffs, had dropped several moments before and he had not noticed the crashing and flapping as he concentrated on the
Delft.
And there was Rossi, calmly stuffing spluttering port fires into the folds of the mainsail.

Ramage took the silver whistle which was slung round his neck on a piece of line. One last glance round. The grapnels were holding the two ships together and the men were out of the rigging. There was no sign of wounded men lying on deck—a miracle in view of the rattling musketry, but until a few moments ago the Dutchmen were trying to hit men running around on a moving vessel.

“Abandon ship!” he bellowed, and put the whistle to his lips and blew a piercing note, and suddenly the whistle seemed to explode and everything went black.

S
EAS were breaking over him and the side of his head was crushed in. His left arm felt as if it was seized in a vice. A loud voice was cursing in fluent Italian; then a Cockney began swearing violently. His whole body was suddenly lifted up, rolled sideways and dropped with a thud, and then he was violently sick, bringing up salt water which tore at the back of his throat.

The spasm was over quickly, but the violent red flickering stayed, the wound in his head numb except for the sharp etching by salt water. Then he realized the red flickering was not in his head; it came from two ships that were less than fifty yards away, and he was now sprawled in a boat whose seamen were rowing away from the flames as though the Devil was chasing them.

“You all right nar, sir?”

He glanced up and recognized the shadowy face of Stafford, whose hair had come loose from the queue and was plastered over his face so that he seemed to be a witch after a dunking.

“I think so. Left arm feels strange. My head, too.”

“
Accidente!
You is alive then,
commandante,
” gasped an excited Rossi. “Any minute those
stronzi
blow up!”

“Where … where is Jackson?”

“Here, sir, at the tiller. And Mr Rennick, too.”

Slowly everything stopped spinning and Ramage looked round. The
Nuestra Señora
was ablaze forward and aft, her masts like trees in a forest fire, but as they had planned, nothing was burning near the mainmast, where the burning fuses should be sputtering their way towards the powder casks. But the blaze started by Rossi's port fires on the schooner's quarterdeck had spread to the
Delft,
perhaps by sparks. But no—her mizenmast and yards had collapsed across the
Nuestra Señora
's quarterdeck, probably because the shrouds had burned through, and now the great spar formed a column of flames joining the two ships.

There was the
Calypso
ahead, all her masts, yards and rigging looking like yellowish-red lacework in the light of the flames, but the hull was solid black and menacing. And beyond her the dancing reflection of the flames just caught the masts of the rest of the privateers and beyond, in the distance,
La Créole.

And the buildings. The flames lit up every building in Otrabanda. And Punda—there was Government House, the white walls this side showing stark, but the northern side was in harsh shadow with the harbour entrance a gaping black mouth with a fort on each side.

Suddenly there was a blinding double flash, followed immediately by a great rolling and reverberating boom that seemed solid noise. The night was black again as the shock of the explosion caught them, and then men, stunned by what they had seen but realizing that now they were safe, stopped rowing. The boom continued echoing down the channel towards the Schottegat, seeming to leave a terrified silence in its wake.

Then it began to rain: a pattering on the water grew heavier and suddenly Ramage realized what it was: the wreckage of two blown-up ships was beginning to land.

“Duck!” he shouted. “Crouch down—under the thwarts!” But his voice came out as a croak and Stafford repeated it, adding his own oaths.

Great splashes told of heavy pieces of timber crashing into the water, and amid the noise Ramage heard Stafford say conversationally: “That flash left it all bloody dark, didn't it? You're orf course for the
Calypso,
Jacko.”

“All right, all right, it isn't every night we see a frigate blow up.”

“Nar, but I'm soakin' wet and cold, and the Capting is shivering like a sick dog.”

“Give way, men!” Jackson called, and the men began rowing again.

“The Dutch survivors,” Ramage croaked. “Our boats … search for them …”

“
Mama mia,
all is blown to Heaven, sir,” Rossi said, “or is sitting on the clouds wondering how to make the down.”

“We'll send boats as soon as we get to the
Calypso,
sir,” Jackson called, “but they'll probably send ‘em anyway. We want to get you and Mr Rennick and the rest back on board quickly.”

“What's happened to Mr Rennick?”

“Don't rightly know, sir. It's his shoulder, and he's lost a lot of blood.”

“Where's Mr Baker?”

“He—well, sir, a musket ball caught him.”

“Badly wounded?”

“Dead, sir. Him and several men. You and Mr Rennick and a few wounded men were all we could get over the side in time.”

But the effort of concentrating was too much; Ramage tried to fight off the faintness draining him but he had no strength, and the next time he opened his eyes he was lying on the
Calypso
's deck, Southwick shining a lantern on him as Bowen, the Surgeon, ripped the seams of his shirt and trousers and said quietly to the Master: “Nasty cut on the skull but the cranium not damaged: musket or pistol ball still lodged in his left forearm. Get him to his cabin and clean him up: for the moment I've more urgent cases to attend—”

“But it's the Captain!” Southwick protested.

Yes,” Bowen said crisply, “and that's what he'd want.” Ramage seemed to be floating in a dream. Someone was scrubbing him with a harsh towel and he felt warmer; it was dark again and then someone was trying to persuade him to drink some brandy and then gradually—it seemed to take hours, but he found out afterwards it was only thirty minutes—he was wide awake, warm, sitting up in his cot and calling for clothes.

Silkin disappeared and came back with Southwick, who announced in the pompous tones that most people adopt when talking to a sick person: “The Surgeon says you must stay in bed, sir.”

“Get me some clothes, Silkin!” Ramage snapped. “I've got to get on shore!”

“Sir!” Southwick protested.

“Don't argue! What time is it?”

“Half past four, sir. It'll soon be dawn.”

Ramage swung out of the cot and had to grab at the armchair to steady himself against the dizziness. “Silkin, get a damp cloth and clean up this mess on my head.”

“It is clean, sir,” Silkin said, “and that's a dry bandage. Your arm, too, sir: Mr Bowen says it will soon get very painful.”

“Soon!” Ramage exclaimed. “It hurts like the devil already. Now, help me to get dressed and tell Mr Aitken to have a boat ready and I want him to accompany me on shore. The sergeant and a dozen Marines, too.”

And that reminded him. “Rennick,” he said to Southwick, “how is Rennick?”

“Bowen thinks he'll be all right. Musket ball in the right shoulder. He lost a lot of blood. So did you, sir.”

Silkin was putting out clothes, and Southwick hustled off to warn Aitken.

“A hot drink before you go, sir?” Silkin said coaxingly.

“It would make me sick. All that salt water I swallowed.” “A bite to eat, then, sir?”

“Nothing—now, don't jerk my breeches like that, blast you; my head feels as though it's going to fall off.”

It took ten minutes for Ramage to dress, but at the end of it his stock was tied neatly, his sword hung properly, and apart from the broad bandage round his head which forced him to carry his hat under his right arm, and his left arm in a sling and throbbing as though it was going to burst, he felt better than he guessed he looked.

Aitken met him at the gangway. “The Marines are in the boat, sir. And Bowen—”

At that moment the Surgeon came bustling up. “Sir, I must forbid this madness. You should be in bed and—”

“How are your other patients, Bowen?”

“As well as can be expected, sir.”

“Then you'd better be with them.”

“Yes, sir,” Bowen said contritely. “I understand.”

Did he? Did Southwick? Aitken certainly did; he was a shrewd fellow. But he was probably the only other man in the ship who realized that blowing up the
Delft
was not the end of it: there was still van Someren and the potential of the guns of his forts to deal with. Now, with it still dark and the sight of the exploding ship fresh in the Dutchman's mind, was the time to deal with Gottlieb van Someren.

The walk up to the residence with Aitken seemed ten times as long as before, but the marching Marines gave the impression of a whole battalion striding along the cobbled street. Aitken directed the sergeant to the big gateway and with a bellow and stamping the Marines halted.

“Wait here,” Ramage told the sergeant.

The sentry box outside the gate was empty but there were lights in several of the windows of the residence. When the main door opened to Aitken's banging a startled major-domo immediately retreated up the stairs when he saw Ramage.

“Come on,” Ramage said, following him, “he's going to report to van Someren.”

The former Governor was in his study, sitting at his desk and facing several men who were probably town councillors. Two Army officers sat slightly apart.

As Ramage walked into the room, followed by Aitken, the major-domo was bent over van Someren, obviously trying to whisper to him that the English Captain had arrived. The moment he saw Ramage the former Governor leapt up so violently his chair fell over backwards.